Dead Center
by MOLLY THE MONSTER
Summary: I throw the knife toward the targets. Cato looks over his shoulder, our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. I look away and turn back to my target. I'm not surprised to see that it's hit the dead center. Like I told Cato: I never miss. Clato.


Dead Center

By Molly The Monster

_Setting: the training center in District 2, six  
>weeks before the 70th annual Hunger Games<em>

I can't hide the satisfied smirk on my face as I stare at the three targets thirty feet from me. Each has a small throwing knife sticking out, the tip of each one dead center on the targets. There are other people watching, I know that. They saw how precise my aim was. Good–let them know how good I am. I may only be twelve, this may be my first week training with the kids eligible to be reaped, but they should all know I'm a force to be reckoned with.

Slowly, dramatically, I cover the space between me and the targets, pulling the knives out one at a time. I take them back to the spot marked on the floor where we're supposed to throw them from. I take two in my left hand, one in my right and send them hurtling thirty feet across the room, concentrating, watching as it hits the center of the right target, then the left one, then finally the center one.

Impressive, if I do say so myself.

"Not bad," I hear a low voice behind me say.

I don't need to turn around to know who it is. He's practically famous around here. We all know when Cato is eighteen he'll be a one man wrecking machine in the arena. He'll kill the other tributes, and probably easily win and return to District 2 as a hero. He's almost two years older than me, because of the way our birthday's fall, but he should have been only a year ahead of me in training. But that's part of the reason why Cato is so famous–his parents stuck him in training a year early.

"That was better than not bad," I say smugly, the right side of my mouth curled up into a slight smile. "_That_," I say, pointing to the three knives lodged into the practice targets, "was excellent. I never miss."

"Oh," says Cato, with an odd sort of smile of his own. "Such a large amount of confidence for such a little girl," he continues, lowering his voice as he leans down over my shoulder, speaking into my ear. "You got a name?"

I stifle a laugh. "Yeah," I say nonchalantly with a shrug before taking an elusive step away from him and walk back toward the knives that I have lodged into the targets. Once again, I pull them out one by one. I only allow myself to take a quick look at Cato's face, and I can tell, despite his better judgment, that he's impressed. And I have to admit, I'm impressed with myself. He's definitely handsome, strong, and arrogant–the kind of guy who gets bored with conversation in a matter of seconds. Yet there he was–still standing there.

This time, instead of standing on the place marked on the floor, I stand about four feet behind it to further the distance between me and the targets.

"So you're not going to tell me, huh?" asks Cato, still amused, though I can tell he doesn't like being ignored. "Are you gonna make me guess?"

"Sure," I say with a shrug, holding back a smile. I send the first knife hurling through the air and, as expected, it hits the target at the very center.

From the corner of my eye I can see Cato moving closer to me, hovering behind me. "Diamond?" he guesses, leaning down over my shoulder. "Coal? Glisten?" He's rambling off names now–ridiculous names of kids we know from training. But he has no idea who I am. And if his guesses are any indication, he'll never guess it.

"No," I say, squaring up to the target, doing my best not to be startled by the utter closeness of the older boy. "But you're _really_ close."

He knows I'm lying–I can tell by the way he laughs. "Star?" he guesses again while I get ready to throw my next knife. "Rosewood? Bra–"

"Clove!" a voice calls angrily, distracting me enough to make my knife just barely hit the target as I throw it. I'm about to make the person who dared distract me pay for it when I'm quickly met with two hands shoving me away from the place I was standing. "Stop hogging the targets!" the owner of the voice–the boy I'm about to _murder_–says.

In one swift motion, I kick him in the shin. He cowers over to grab the place where I've kicked him, and I quickly dig my elbow deep into his back with one quick jab so that he falls to his knees. I drop to my knees too, wrapping my left arm around his neck, gripping his neck tight. With my right hand I've pressed the tip of my knife to the flesh right beneath his chin so that a drop of blood drips down the blade.

"Problem, Gunnar?" I ask through gritted teeth, my mouth against the ear of the boy I have in a choke hold. He struggles to say something, trying to pull my left arm from around his neck. Gunnar is my age and we've been training together since we could hold a sword. He also has six inches on me and about fifty pounds, but he's certainly not stronger.

Within moments, three trainers have come over to us. We're allowed to fight–meaning it's encouraged–but once someone has clearly won the fight–meaning blood has been drawn–we're supposed to break it up. But I didn't want to let Gunnar go right away–I liked watching the blood trickle down the edge of my knife as I choked the life out of him–so the trainers had to break us up.

Gunnar practically hisses at me as he goes with one of the trainers to get the cut on his chin taken care of. I do nothing but smirk at him.

I've noticed a number of people have stopped what they were doing to witness the confrontation between Gunnar and me. We all love to watch people fight. But there's one face in particular that I notice.

Cato actually looks impressed. I see him standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyebrows raised. He's smiling slightly, but it's not a smug smile this time. He looks completely and genuinely impressed as he watches me stroll back to my place before the targets. Most of the people who were watching have turned away, going back to their activities–throwing spears, shooting arrows–but Cato is still there, watching me.

I turn to him, eyeing him for a moment before turning back to my targets.

"Not bad, knife girl," he says, his tone entirely different than the first time he spoke to me. Rather than making fun of me, this is a genuine compliment. I don't turn to him, I don't say anything; I just focus on my targets. He comes toward me, once again leaning down so that his mouth is near my ear. "See you 'round, Clove," he breaths in my ear before walking past me and joining someone who's throwing a spear.

This time I turn to him, watching him as he walks away. Without taking my eyes off him, I throw the knife toward the targets. Cato looks over his shoulder, our eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. I look away and turn back to my target.

I'm not surprised to see that it's hit the target dead center.

Like I told Cato: I never miss.

* * *

><p>The amount that I ship Clato should be illegal. Like, obviously Everlark is amazing, but Clato pretty much owns my soul, so...yeah. I have a weird obsession with the Careers. I hate that everyone thinks they're just these heartless animals. They're trained to kill people in the Games. They're just kids–they have feelings too. Guys, Cato came running when Clove called him. He begged her to stay with him. After that, I was a goner. Yes, I ship Clato more than Everlark, because Cato came running.<p>

I wasn't originally going to post this. I wrote a few of pre-Hunger Games stuff as sort of...background/companion pieces to a multi-chap story I'm working on called Human, which will be up...when it's done. c: I wanted to get more of a feel for them, so I wrote this. And I figured I might as well post it.

This story is dedicated to Emullz (3), hi, John, Keeta-x-Tribias and You Are Not Permitted To Touch for reviewing my last one-shot, The Sweet Taste Of Nightlock and all of my wonderful Clato friends from Tumblr!


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